


Are You Uncomfortable?

by juliusschmidt



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Gay Chicken, Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blackhawks play gay chicken. Spoiler: Johnny and Patrick win, separately. And then lose (?), together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Uncomfortable?

Sharpy smiles at Johnny.

Actually, it’s more of a leer.

 _Yes._ This is Patrick’s favorite game: Piss Johnny Off.

They’re at a house party. Shawsy’s hosting and he’s apparently invited a lot of barely legal ladies who seem totally psyched by free alcohol and professional athletes. The three of them, Patrick and Tazer and Sharpy, are crammed onto a couch with a blonde chick named Lea.

The team had a good win earlier. Not awesome. Patrick’s goal was more of a lucky bounce than a ‘wristshot’ and he dropped more passes than he should’ve, but Johnny had a sweet breakaway to put them up with two minutes left in the third.

“So you guys are pretty good friends, huh?” Lea says, laughing. She’s sitting next to Johnny, practically on top of him.

Her solicitous giggling seems suspiciously practiced. Patrick hopes she’s a hooker. Johnny’s tried to pick up hookers before, accidentally, and it’s hilarious.

Sharpy slings an arm around Johnny and shifts closer to him. “You could say that.”

Johnny turns to glare at him.

Sharpy leans his forehead against Johnny’s temple. “Does this make you uncomfortable, Jonathan?”

He’s such an asshole and Patrick loves it.

Johnny’s eyes narrow. He looks over Sharpy at Patrick who laughs and waggles his eyebrows. “Are you uncomfortable, Johnny? Are you?”

Johnny nods once, his expression serious, like Patrick has just suggested using a particularly innovative play.

Johnny places a hand on Sharpy’s knee and raises an eyebrow at him. “No. Why would I be? Are you uncomfortable, Sharpy?”

Sharpy reaches out and caresses Johnny’s cheek. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he says, softly, shaking his head.

Patrick watches carefully, expecting Johnny to flinch. He doesn’t. In fact, Johnny leans into the touch. He closes his eyes.

Okay. This is getting a little gay and _Patrick_ is beginning to feel uncomfortable. So he says, “Get a room before you go sticking it in his ass, Sharpy.”

Sharpy lets his hand drop. But then he settles it on Johnny’s hip. “What do you say, Toes? Want to get a room?”

Patrick focuses on Sharpy’s hand as it bunches in Johnny’s shirt, exposing a sliver of pale skin.

“You guys are so fuckin’ hot,” Lea says.

“You think so?” Johnny asks. Presumably he’s responding to Lea, but he’s looking right into Patrick’s eyes, as he speaks.

Johnny slides his hand up Sharpy’s thigh. Underneath his fingers, Sharpy’s phone vibrates.

“Fuck, yeah. I’d do you both. At the same time, I mean.”

Patrick has to stop himself from asking if she charges extra for that because _come on_. Definitely, a hooker.

Sharpy’s phone keeps buzzing. It stops for a second, only to start right back up.

“Gonna answer that?” Johnny asks without removing his hand.

Sharpy reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone, in the process somehow managing to press even closer to Johnny.

“Hey, darling,” he says into the phone, still looking at Johnny. Then he frowns. “Oh no, not again.” A pause. “Yeah, I’ll stop by Walgreens on the way.”

He hangs up and moves Johnny’s hand off his thigh. “Sorry, man, Maddy’s got a really bad cough and it’s keeping her and Abby up. I’ve gotta get home.”

“That’s rough,” Johnny says.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. Kids suck. Usually, he’s not sorry his teammates have them, but right now he wants Sharpy all to himself. And Johnny.

“It’s not so bad. Mostly just annoying,” Sharpy says. Then, as he moves to stand, he punches Johnny in the shoulder. “You’re a pro at that game.”

“Rematch. Rematch. Rematch.” Patrick finds himself chanting. Johnny smacks him on the back of the head.

~~~

Johnny takes Patrick to the movies. On the way to the theater, he won’t tell Patrick what they’re going to see. He keeps smiling and laughing at Patrick like he’s just told some hilarious joke and is waiting for Patrick to _get it already_.

Patrick doesn’t get it.

But he is stoked when the movie is _Live Free or Die Hard_ because that is his favorite. Even as an old man, Bruce Willis kicks some serious ass. And Johnny knows Patrick so well to even think to bring him here.

During the movie, Patrick can’t focus. That’s not a big deal because he knows the limited dialogue by heart and the special effects are impossible to miss, even distracted as he is by Johnny’s loud breathing.

Johnny’s practically panting beside him and Patrick’s having difficulty working up to his normal degree of annoyed as shit, because, instead, he’s really turned on. He’s fucking hard, dick pressing tight against the smooth inner fabric of his khaki shorts.

Johnny keeps leaning over to whisper bland comments like, “What have I been saying about our dependence on computers, Kaner? It’s fucking dangerous.”  And Patrick would argue back- computers are the shit- but Johnny says it with his lips flush against Patrick’s ear and Patrick’s throat goes dry.

Patrick looks at Johnny, who keeps his eyes trained forward. But, then, he reaches over to put a hand Patrick’s knee.

Johnny leans over and presses his lips against Patrick’s ear again. He asks, “Are you uncomfortable, Kaner?”

“Fuck, no,” Patrick manages to whisper back. He grabs Johnny’s hand to move it to--

~~~

It’s not the first gay sexy-ish dream he’s had. He doesn’t have them very often. Like he can count the number he’s had on one hand. But it’s not his first. It’s not even the first he’s had about Johnny.

This dream, though, _this_  dream follows him around.

At practice, Coach pulls him and Johnny aside to watch some power play film. They sit close on the bench, thighs pressed together, iPad in Johnny’s hands. Patrick makes him replay the same twenty seconds three times because he keeps thinking about Johnny’s hand coming down to rest on his knee. He’s half hard by the time they’re done and has learned zero ways to improve their power play.

And, later, when Sharpy swats Patrick with a towel and says, “How about last night, eh?” Patrick’s first thought is a flash of that dream, of the feel of Johnny’s mouth against his ear. Which, okay, Sharpy cannot read his mind. He’s talking about Shawsy’s party. So Patrick waggles his eyebrows and says, “You know it.”

~~~

There’s three of them piled onto Johnny’s couch. Brandon and Patrick are engrossed in a game of NHL ‘12, with Saad sitting between them, watching quietly and throwing out the occasional hint. The kid’s a ringer and he’s not allowed to actually play anymore. And, no, not because the rest of them are bad at losing. He’s not allowed to play because it’s not fair if one person always wins.

Patrick is just finishing kicking Brandon’s ass when Shawsy comes over, inserting himself forcefully between Brandon and Saader. He throws his arms across the back of the couch, enveloping the men beside him.

Saad leans forward, chin on fists, elbows on his knees, clearly uncomfortable with Shawsy’s proximity.

Shawsy drops his hand to Saader’s back and begins to rub soft circles. He shifts forward and says, “This a little close for you, Man Child? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Saad jerks up and off the couch. “Oh my god, Shawsy, you’re so fucking gay.”

Shawsy sprawls out into the space Saad’s left behind and smiles up at the poor kid whose frown betrays the belated realization that he’s just been played.

“I’m not gay at all. I’m totally comfortable in my heterosexuality. Looks like you, on the hand...” Shawsy raises an eyebrow.  He leaves the sentence unfinished, but the implication is clear from the shit-eating grin on his face.

“Johnny’s fuckin’ boss at that game,” Patrick says.

Shawsy turns his crazed grin on Patrick. Which, okay, maybe that’s sort of a random and weird thing to say. “Is that right?” Shawsy asks.

Johnny enters the room with a bowl of popcorn that he’s just popped on his stove. Patrick didn’t even know that was a thing before he met Johnny.

“Is what right?” Johnny asks, because he’s a nosy, know-it-all bastard.

Shawsy’s face get even crazier. “Kaner says you’re fucking boss at this game.”

And, obviously, Johnny must think they’re talking about NHL ‘12 because he says, “Damn right.”

Shawsy howls with laughter. Johnny sets down the popcorn and then shoves Shawsy over to make room for himself next to Patrick. “That’s not what Kaner said, is it?”

The third period ends and Patrick has crushed Brandon. Brandon throws his controller onto the floor and it lands next to Saader who’s leaning up against the coffee table.

Shawsy says, “Patrick said you’re fucking boss at gay chicken.”

Johnny chuckles and turns toward Patrick who is digging his phone out from between the couch cushions because he does not want to look at Johnny right now.  Johnny turns back to Shawsy and says, “Damn right.”

Patrick, phone in hand, looks at them through his lashes. Shawsy’s sizing Johnny up. “Yeah?” he says.

Johnny says, “Don’t believe me?”

“Not for one fucking second.” With that Shawsy situates himself on Johnny’s lap.

Brandon is laughing into his own phone. His phone that he’s using to take pictures.

Johnny wraps his arms around Shawsy and nuzzles his face into the hollow of his neck. And that makes Shawsy squirm, but Johnny holds fast and nuzzles with renewed vigor.

Shawsy giggles, high pitched and ridiculous. “Stop, Johnny! That fucking tickles! Oh my god!”

And Johnny wins. Again.

~~~

It’s weeks later and they’re on the road. Patrick’s in Stalberg’s room, waiting for him to finish getting ready for lunch. Usually, they’d just go without him, but they’re celebrating the four points he managed to put up in last night’s game.

He was supposed to be ready to go twenty minutes ago. Predictably, he’s still in the shower.

Johnny’s laying spread eagle, eyes closed, and Patrick sits between his legs at the end of Stalberg’s freshly made bed.

Sharpy’s lounging in the armchair at the desk, flipping through the book of hotel and local amenities. Everyone else is waiting for them in the lobby.

A Taylor Swift song rings tinny through the shitty TV speakers. Apparently, Stalberg spent his morning watching MTV2.

The shower switches off and Johnny sits up. Patrick feels Johnny, hot, behind him. His breath hits the back of Patrick's neck, sending a shiver down Patrick’s spine. Patrick tenses his shoulders and starts to scoot forward.

Sharpy looks up and smirks at Patrick, who freezes. Fuck. He knows where this is about to go. Sharpy says, “Oh, Peekaboo, is he making you uncomfortable?”

Patrick smirks back. As long as he’s looking at Sharpy and not Johnny, he can probably do this without thinking _gay dream gay dream gay dream_.   

He lets himself relax back against Johnny’s chest, shimmying his shoulders a little, pretending to get real comfortable.

To his surprise, Johnny shoves him hard, off the bed and onto the floor. Johnny stands up, towering over Patrick, scowling down at him.

“What the hell?” Patrick asks.

Johnny doesn’t reply and, instead, marches over to the bathroom, bangs on the door and shouts, “Let’s go, Vic. Hurry the fuck up.”

Patrick looks at Sharpy. He’s cracking up, quietly, and Patrick remembers that he started this game, ages ago now, in order to piss Johnny off. Apparently, Sharpy won after all, with Patrick’s help.

~~~

Patrick’s already buzzed when the other guys show up at his apartment loaded down with a couple of cases of beer and takeout from Johnny’s favorite restaurant. They’re going to watch the Oilers and the Flames give it to each other good tonight, hopefully, cause they’ll be playing both teams on their upcoming road trip.

Patrick peers out into the hallway and sees that it’s just Shawsy, Leddy and Johnny, fewer guys than he expected.

As he lets them in, Shawsy swats at his ass and Patrick chases after him with a friendly grope of his own. Shawsy squawks and wrestles Patrick to the floor in front of the TV.

Johnny and Leddy ignore them in favor of the game, which is already on.

Shawsy pins Patrick on his side, slides a hand up the back of his shirt- what the fuck- and singsongs, “Hey, Peekaboo.”

Patrick bucks, a little wildly, hoping to dislodge him.

Shawsy leans down close to Patrick’s face and says, “Am I making you uncomfortable, boo?”

Which, okay, it is _on_. “Yeah, man, you’re gonna fuck up my shoulder.” Patrick makes sure to insert just the right amount of whine- exactly enough to make sure Shawsy knows he’s not joking.

“You are such a pussy, Kaner. For a hockey player, you really don’t know how to take a hit,” Leddy says from the couch, as Shawsy clambers off Patrick. That chirp is uncalled for. And it pisses Patrick off.

So he maybe goes a little farther than he planned when he leans over and plants a smacking kiss on Shawsy, right on his lips, closemouthed, but still hard and a little wet.

Shawsy shoves at him and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sloppy, man,” he says.

Patrick crowds Shawsy, leering and making like he’s about to kiss him again.  He says, “Like that, buddy? Want some more?”

Leddy throws an empty beer can at Patrick and Shawsy moves back, saying, “You wish, gaywad.”

Johnny’s leaning forward, still focused on the game, hands at his temples like blinders. He says, “That’s a clear shot, you fucker. That is not the moment to fucking pass! Oh my god, Eberle!”

~~~

They’re in a hotel room. Patrick thinks they’ve been there before. Maybe it’s the place they usually stay in Calgary. He thinks he recognizes the giant white and red speckled art hanging on the wall above the bed.

Patrick is on his elbows and knees, ass in the air. Johnny’s hand is splayed, broad and warm, across Patrick’s naked back.

A slick finger massages the ring of muscle around his hole and then presses in. Patrick’s fingered himself before, more out of curiosity and boredom than any particular interest in future assfucking endeavors, but the slight discomfort is familiar, welcome even.

Johnny slides in slowly and, after a few pushes, changes the angle. His finger brushes Patrick’s prostate. Fucking, yes. Patrick’s vision blurs. “Oh my god, Johnny.”

Johnny finds a slow rhythm, brushing that _spot_ again and again and again and then, fuck, he pulls the finger out.

“What the hell?” Patrick cries.

But, then, Johnny returns to the task before Patrick can protest further, this time with two fingers. It doesn’t take long for him to rediscover Patrick's _spot_. Patrick’s aware of his cock, hard and weeping, and he wishes Johnny would just, _fuck_. Johnny reaches around, palming Patrick roughly. He feels his balls tighten, he’s about to-- 

“Patrick,” Johnny breathes, mouth pressed up against Patrick’s spine. “Are you.. is this uncomfortable?”

~~~

Patrick wakes up. In a hotel. In Calgary. By himself, dick stiff, pressed between his stomach and the sheets. He rolls onto his side to finish himself off. He finds the lotion, next to the lamp, where he’d left it last night, and squirts some onto his hand. He jerks himself, rough and quick, and allows himself think about a finger in his ass, about Johnny’s finger in his ass, about Johnny’s mouth against his back. He imagines Johnny’s hand on his dick, Johnny’s wet kisses against his spine, Johnny’s teeth following the kisses, and Johnny biting him, hard, and he comes.

In the shower, Patrick tries to temper the panic building in him. It’s not really a big deal. He’s had these kind of thoughts before. Maybe not this frequently. Maybe not quite so explicit. But Johnny’s his best friend. Things are bound to get confusing, every so often.

~~~

This is the gayest shit Patrick has ever done. And that’s saying alot because his sisters have gotten him into dresses for family fashion shows and, also, one time, in Juniors, he sucked his roommate’s dick.

But this is _super_ gay. There’s six of them, six giant hockey player sized dudes, piled, god only knows how, onto one king sized bed. And they’re watching _The_ fucking _Notebook_.

So, it’s mostly his fault. He knows better than to get involved in arguments over his manhood (or lack thereof) when he’s drunk. He’s been kicked out of many a bar for the fights that ensue from making that mistake.

But he’s never been tempted to punch Sharpy before (that’s a lie) so he figures he’s safe to respond when Sharpy hands him a strawberry daiquiri and says, “For you, Princess Peekaboo.”

Instead of a fistfight, Patrick finds himself engaged in a battle of wills, a battle wills that ends with him saying, “I’m tough, Sharpy. I don’t fucking cry at girly shit. I bet you five hundred dollars, I could watch _The Notebook_ , start to finish, without any tear duct action.”

Because he’s an asshole, Sharpy remembers the bet in the morning and chirps Patrick relentlessly until he finally follows through three nights later.

Apparently, the betting pool has expanded, which only sort of explains why it’s not just him and Sharpy watching. Shawsy makes sure Patrick knows that _he’s_ only there to stand as an eyewitness to Patrick’s tears.

There’s a lot of grousing about old people. About stupid girls who refuse to date handsome and well-meaning guys. About taking someone to the movies on a first date. Most of the bitterness comes from Johnny, who’s clearly very invested in the whole thing.

The boy and girl on screen are laying on the street, not quite holding hands and watching the stop light change from red to green. The hotel room is completely silent.

“This is gay,” Patrick announces. “I’m so done with this shit.” He reaches for the remote. Sharpy wraps his arms around Patrick’s middle and pulls him back.

“Start to finish, Peeks, the bet was start to finish. Unless you’re conceding?”

Patrick scoots away from Sharpy and ends up mostly in Johnny’s lap. Johnny kicks at him. “Oh my god, Kaner. Get off me,” he says.

Sharpy meets Patrick’s eyes and leers at him, so Patrick attempts to settle more comfortably against Johnny.

Johnny shoves at him, “What is your problem?”

Sharpy laughs and, encouraged, Patrick turns and reaches out clutch at Johnny’s shirt. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Yes, you fucking are, you little shit,” Johnny says. Jerking away from Patrick, he extricates himself from the pile of bodies on the bed and moves toward the door.

And _what the hell_. Patrick has seen him _kill_ at this game with Sharpy and with Shawsy.

As he leaves, Johnny slams the door shut. He’s acting crazy. Patrick falls off the bed, moving to chase after him. As he reaches for the door handle, he says to Sharpy, “I’ll be back. Pause it. I’m winning this bet.”

~~~

Johnny’s inside his own room before Patrick can catch him, so he stands outside the door and pounds on it.

He doesn’t have to wait long for the door to open, maybe an inch or two, just enough that he can see Johnny’s face peek through the crack. The crazy bastard is using the deadbolt.

“Let me in, man,” Patrick says. “You’re acting insane.”

Johnny slams the door shut and Patrick lifts his fist to resume pounding, but the door opens again, wide enough, this time, for Patrick to step inside.

Johnny’s got his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. He doesn’t look at Patrick when he says, “What?”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Patrick knows he’s already shouting and moving toward Johnny, but he can’t stop. He’s not even drunk. This is so fucked up.

Johnny’s arms drop to his sides and he backs up, until his legs are pressing against the end of his own king sized bed. “You were being a little shit. And the movie was stupid, anyway, so I left.”   

Patrick grips Johnny’s biceps. “I mean, how was I being any more of _a little shit_ than normal?”

Johnny flinches, but he doesn’t move away from Patrick. He looks down. “I’m not into all that touchy-feely groping, you and Sharpy and Shawsy are always starting. It’s stupid and I don’t like it.”

“Oh my god, Johnny. You fucker. I watched you practically palm Sharpy’s dick.”

Johnny breathes out, hard. “That was months ago, Kaner.”

“You know what I think, Johnny?”

“I don’t care what you think,” Johnny says and tries to free his arms from Patrick's grip. Patrick tightens his hold. His face is so close to Johnny’s and he can feel Johnny’s breath against his lips, coming in quick, harsh pants, like he just got off the ice.

“I think _I_ make you uncomfortable. And I want to know why the fuck that is!”

As soon as Patrick says it, he deflates. Shit’s getting weird and he knows it’s his fault. He lets go of Johnny’s arms and steps back.

Johnny sits down on the bed and buries his head in his hands. Vaguely, Patrick wonders if they actually did pause the movie back in his room. Or if they’re still watching. Or if they’re going to come and try to find him.

He sits down beside Johnny.

After several long moments, Johnny looks over at him, eyes narrowed. “You know what? Let’s go,” he says.

“What do you--” Patrick begins, but then Johnny scoots closer and slips an arm around Patrick’s waist. Johnny slips his hand under Patrick’s shirt and rubs a small circle on the bare skin of Patrick’s hip with the pad of his thumb.

“Yeah?” Patrick says, reaching over to run a hand up and down Johnny’s thigh. Inadvertently, he brushes Johnny’s dick and, his breath catching, he leaves the side of his hand pressed up against it. He feels it harden.

He watches Johnny swallow and slip his hand under the elastic of Patrick’s pants. He meets Patrick’s gaze, briefly, eyes dark and expressionless, before leaning over and pressing his lips against Patrick’s neck.

“Shit, Johnny,” Patrick says. He’s hard now, too, dick aching for Johnny’s hand to move over just an inch or two.

He grabs at Johnny’s cock through his sweats and Johnny bites down on his neck.

“You uncomfortable, Patrick?” Johnny murmurs, wetly, close to Patrick’s ear.

Patrick begins to stroke him, slow and hard. “Fuck, no.”

Johnny moans and arches into his hand. Patrick says, “Like that, do you?”

In answer, Johnny teeth dig into Patrick’s skin, right below his ear. His hand slides down to massage Patrick’s balls, and that feels _so_... Patrick wants him to quit fucking around already.

“Just fucking touch me, you asshole,” Patrick grinds out, his voice deep, but breathy.

Johnny presses down on this spot right behind Patrick’s balls and, “Holy shit, Johnny.”

Johnny’ licks into his ear and then says, “What do you think? Do you think you make me fucking uncomfortable, Pat?”

Patrick realizes he’s stopped moving his hand on Johnny’s dick. So he starts again. It’s too dry, in a way Patrick hates on himself, but Johnny whines and Patrick thinks he’s really getting off on it.  

“Yeah, I do,” Patrick says. “Cause you fuckin’ love me.”

And that’s not what he meant to say, but Johnny doesn’t seemed fazed by it. He’s biting and licking and sucking and _sucking_ what’s going to be a giant, colorful hickey onto the back of Patrick’s neck.

Patrick speeds up and Johnny’s hips start to move up and up and up and then he’s lost the rhythm of it, spilling all over Patrick’s fist. Johnny’s head falls to Patrick’s shoulder, as Patrick strokes him through, shuddering.

Patrick reaches down his pants for his own cock, hand slick with Johnny’s come, and the pressure is amazing.Then, he stops because. Yeah. Well. He’s won.

Johnny’s totally gay for him. Woohoo.

He thinks about Sharpy and Shawsy and Brandon and Seabs camped out in his room, movie paused, waiting for him to come back and cry through the end of some goddamn chick flick. And what is he even doing here with Johnny? What the fuck.

Johnny moves away from him. And onto the floor. He pushes apart Patrick’s knees and pulls down both his gym shorts and briefs with one swift tug.

He’s frowning as he meets Patrick’s eyes. He says, “Is this okay?”

And then he doesn’t wait for Patrick’s answer before wrapping his mouth around Patrick’s cock. He’s able to swallow most of it at once and Patrick lets himself fall back onto the bed. He wants to watch Johnny, but _oh my god_.

Johnny sucks hard and sloppy, moving up and down, but never off, his cock. Patrick can’t help it, his hips stutter up toward Johnny, who chokes a bit and digs his nails into Patrick’s inner thigh.

Johnny’s other hand reaches up to grope Patrick’s balls, which tighten up in tandem with the tightening of Johnny’s throat around his dick.

Johnny pulls off. He pushes Patrick’s whole junk area up, toward his stomach and licks a wet stripe from right behind Patrick’s balls to the pucker of his ass. Twice.

Patrick grunts once, load and whiny.

Johnny moves away to dig through his duffle bag. He’s taking a long time and Patrick begins to panic.

“What the hell, man. You are not fucking finished,” Patrick complains, sitting up.

Johnny returns to the bed with two foil packages. He pushes Patrick gently up toward the headboard. He reaches around him, grabs a pillow and shoves it under Patrick’s hips.

Ripping one of the foil packages open- Patrick realizes it’s lube- Johnny says, “You done this before?”

“Done what?”

Johnny teases Patrick’s hole with his lubed-up index finger. Patrick keens and it sounds a lot like Johnny’s name.

“Shoved things up your ass. Are you, um, _comfortable_ with that?”

Patrick winces. They’re still playing this game? Fuck it. “Man up, Toews, and just stick it the fuck in me.”

Johnny frowns, but then he complies. Johnny’s motions are clumsy and a little hesitant. Patrick wonders if Johnny’s ever done this before. But, yeah, it’s way better than when Patrick does it to himself.

Johnny leans down and presses an open mouthed kiss against Patrick’s stomach, his cheek brushing against Patrick’s cock, which has wilted a bit from lack of attention.  

As he lifts his head, he makes eye contact with Patrick, his gaze lidded and heavy.

“More,” chokes Patrick. “More fingers and more lube.”

Johnny moans and withdraws from Patrick. When he sticks in two fingers, it hurts a bit. Johnny keeps looking at Patrick, lips tight, so serious.

“Slowly,” says Patrick. “And then.. fuck. You have.. like.. angle them. Yeah. Keep... Fuck. Johnny, maybe a little more... _Oh shit_.”

“Yeah?” Johnny says, grinning now. “You like that?”

Patrick whimpers and Johnny keeps going and going. Patrick’s fully hard again, leaking onto his stomach.

“Patrick?” Johnny says, extracting his fingers roughly.

“Shit, Johnny, you’re still not fucking finished.”

Johnny’s shucking his pants. He’s hard again and Patrick’s not even sure how that’s possible. Maybe it’s Johnny’s stupid vitamin regimen he keeps trying to get Patrick to follow. Or, maybe, Patrick’s just that hot. Fuck, yeah.

“Can I?” Johnny asks, cock in one hand, condom in the other. He rips the package open with his teeth, still looking hopefully into Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick can’t help but say, “Fucking hell, you are a machine.”

Johnny slides on the condom and lines his dick up at Patrick’s entrance. “Yes, then?”

Patrick narrows his eyes. He thinks saying 'yes' might mean losing. Johnny squeezes Patrick’s dick and he doesn’t even care about the game anymore. “Okay, _Johnny_ , damn it.” 

Johnny’s really fucking careful as he pushes in. He keeps his gaze trained on Patrick’s face and Patrick’s chest clenches. When he’s in as far as he can go, Johnny’s eyes flutter shut. Patrick swallows because he _aches_ around Johnny and, well, shit just got _real_.

Johnny’s arms, bracing him up over Patrick, are shaking.

Patrick runs a hand across Johnny’s shoulders and lets it rest, fingers splayed, on the small of Johnny’s back. “Come on,” he says. “You’re okay.”

Johnny opens his eyes and shifts inside Patrick. Which, okay, wow, Patrick loves this feeling. “I’m a lot better than okay, you little shit.”

Patrick lets out a startled laugh because Johnny sounds so totally fucked, voice soft and rough and, maybe even, on the edge of tears.

Then, Johnny starts to thrust, slow, small movements, and it hurts, but, also, it’s awesome. Johnny’s breathing really hard and Patrick knows this isn’t going to last. He reaches for his own cock and starts to stroke, matching the rhythm of Johnny’s hips.

“Oh my god,” Johnny says, speeding up, movements becoming more and more erratic. His angle changes slightly and yes, he’s hitting Patrick’s sweet spot. And Patrick’s paralyzed, for a moment, come pulsing out over his fist for the second time that night.

He turns his head to the side, trying to catch his breath. Johnny’s hand is flexing as he grips the sheet.  

“Yeah, yeah, fuck,” Johnny says.  And he’s coming, too, deep inside Patrick. He’s still shaking. And Patrick feels great about that. Somehow, he’s made this totally awesome for Johnny.

After a moment, Johnny pulls out and, ouch, okay, Patrick does not like that part of assfucking. Johnny flops onto his back and tugs half-heartedly at the condom.

There’s a pounding at the door.

“Peekaboo!”

It’s Sharpy. Of course, it is.

“Peeks, you can’t hide in here with Johnny forever. I’m not done proving to the world that you’re a girl.”

The pounding resumes. And Johnny is laughing. And suddenly Patrick hates him so much.

He sits up and starts to gather his clothes. He mutters, “I’m not a girl.”

Johnny sits, too. He’s still laughing as he ties off the condom and throws it at the trashcan, missing by several inches.

Patrick turns his back to Johnny as he pulls on his pants. “Whatever, my dick is definitely bigger than yours.”

“Fuck you, you guys!” It’s Shawsy this time. But, then, a few seconds later, the insistent knocking stops and Patrick thinks, hopes, that maybe they gave up.

Johnny wraps his arms around Patrick from behind. Patrick tenses because this is bullshit. Johnny starts to press kisses along the back of Patrick’s neck and onto the tops of his shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re not a girl,” he says.

Patrick turns his head and meets Johnny’s eyes, “Yeah?”

“I really like playing hockey with you.”

 

 


End file.
